


A lady's favor

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/829.html">got_exchange Comment Fic Meme.</a></p><p>Prompt was <i>Young Petyr/Lysa, a lady's favor</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A lady's favor

When they are alone, she presses her body to his, and when his arms tentatively encircle her waist, clumsily fumbling with her sash, she laughs involuntarily. It isn’t mocking; it’s joyful, at least to Lysa’s ears. Petyr isn’t sure, though. His hands are nervous, fumbling about with her dress, attempting to find a place to light, to uncover her willing body. Slender fingers entwine with Lysa’s sash, pulling it about, and she draws in a sharp breath when he accidentally cinches her waist. At last, he unthreads the thin strip of silk from its fastenings and lets it fly, sailing over his shoulder to the bed behind them.

“Oh hurry,” Lysa whispers, voice ragged. She can feel the warmth from the wine spreading outward, numbing her and driving her toward him. It had begun in her belly, but she can now feel her limbs growing heavy and she wants to see this through before either of them have second thoughts, before they drowse away and the moment is lost. She helps him then, stepping out of her dress, and sliding her shift over her head, while Petyr busies himself with his fastenings. His motions are equally dulled, yet frantic, and as she watches, the cold prickling her skin, she finds it almost endearing.

He takes her by the arm in a strange parody of a knight escorting his lady fair, and they collapse together on the mattress. Lysa reclines, feeling his hands in her hair, fingers running through her auburn tresses, snagging in places. She winces, but she likes the pain because it is from _him_ , from her Petyr, and she could forgive him anything, really. Any slight, any disappointment, any pain. It is all to be overlooked.

He straddles her, lips finding hers in the dimness, sharp little kisses undulled by the arbor red that is coursing through him, his hands moving from her hair to her breasts, where he briefly strokes her nipples, tweaking them, quickly moving down her torso. There is a desperation in his movements that disappoints her; Lysa had hoped that it would be a pleasure to be savored, and not this frantic coupling, but she does not protest. _It is Petyr, after all_ , she thinks in the back of her mind, _it is Petyr my love, and isn’t that all that matters in the end?_

“What in the seven hells,” he says suddenly, his voice thick, hands closing on the forgotten sash, which had bunched up between their bodies.

When she realizes what it is, Lysa giggles, taking it from him and gently looping it round his neck. “It is a lady’s favor, to wear into battle,” she says, her voice light, and he does smile, bending in to kiss her again, the tails of the fabric tickling her. As their kisses become deeper, their motions more frantic, Lysa feels his hardness growing against her belly, and she takes it in her hand, clumsily guiding him, spreading her thighs, legs trembling.

She is surprised at how light he is, how slight his weight is against her as they couple, and although she knows that it is unbecoming, she looks him full in the face as they move together, taking in his flushed cheeks, hair flopping against his forehead, tightly-closed eyes, mouth slightly open. He is usually so orderly, so perfect, that it is almost a shock, and yet a pleasant surprise to see him so disordered. _I’ve unmade him_ , Lysa thinks with a secret smile.

It is pleasant, this act, but she does not feel the burning passion that the books speak of, or the more salacious ballads that her father frowns upon as bad taste, but the closeness is nice, the feel of another’s body next to hers, and she can understand at last why it is so carefully guarded, so forbidden.

When Petyr comes, he cries out, at first a wordless moan, and then a name.

“Cat. My sweet Cat.”

A sick emptiness forces itself into Lysa’s chest, and it takes all of her self control not to pull away. She lets him finish, and when he slides onto the bed, chest hitching from his exertions, she does not move or give away what she has heard. She lies still, choking back the sob that threatens to betray her.


End file.
